The Case of the Bloody Quarter
by marymo92
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are out to prove Inspector Lestrade's son is innocent in a recent brutal murder. But all is not as it seems, and this will prove to be the final mystery for the duo.


Jake walked along the ill lit sidewalk, hands in his pockets, his head down, and his shoulders slumped. Today had been another long day at work, and being forced to walk home in the rain wasn't improving his mood at all. _Just a few more months of this and everyone will be off my back. I can finally get my own place, my car back—_

His thoughts were interrupted by a car horn in the distance. Only the noise wasn't stopping. Curious, he turned down the side street that he suspected the sound was coming from. As he looked down the narrow roadway, he saw a lone vehicle pulled off to the side a ways ahead. He paused for a second, trying to decide if it was worth investigating, then shrugged and started towards the vehicle.

That's when it hit him. This was _his_ vehicle. His black 1969 Chevy Corvette Stingray he had sold to his uncle not two weeks ago. Adrenaline started flowing, and he broke into a sprint towards the car's passenger side. As he got there, he flung open the car door, and froze. His uncle sat in the driver's seat, hands tied to the steering wheel, head slumped over, eyes wide open, and blood seeping out of a gash in his neck. Dead.

Jake's brain started working before his body could move again. _Help. Must call—someone. Is he alive? He can't be alive. How do you check? What do I do?_ Finally, he sat down beside his uncle, forcing himself to look for any sign of life. No breathing. Skin was still warm. No pulse that he could find. He dug around the car for loose change, finding a few quarters and dimes. He remembered passing a phone booth a block down, so he slammed the car door shut and ran over to it.

Sliding open the glass door frame of the phone booth, his shaking hands struggled to put the necessary change in the phone to make his call. Finally, he was able to put in enough for a five-minute call, and quickly rang out.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"I need to report a—a murder…"

"Then why is it you need my help? You have your murderer, go arrest him." I could hear Holmes' voice clearly as I walked up the staircase to what used to be my apartment. Holmes had summoned me, as usual, much too early in the morning.

"It's not as simple as all that." Inspector Lestrade answered with a frustrated sigh. "There are things that don't add up that I would like a second opinion on is all."

With a quick knock, I opened the door to Sherlock's apartment. Sherlock was seated in his arm chair, arms folded across his chest, with just the faintest smile on the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, Watson, so good of you to come over so quickly." He looked up at me as I entered.

"You said it was urgent," I replied.

"And indeed it is. Indeed it is. Another fight with the wife I see?" Holmes said with a wink.

I rolled my eyes visibly as I closed the apartment door behind me. I didn't even want to ask him how he came to that conclusion, because I had had a rough night, and frankly wasn't in the mood to let Holmes gloat.

"Lestrade, would you mind catching Watson up on the recent events that have unfolded?" Holmes asked politely.

"There was a murder on Chester Street last night," Lestrade directed at me. "White male, late 40's, apparently attacked in his car with a knife. We have the suspect in custody."

"Then once again Inspector, why are you coming to me?" Holmes asked, scratching the hair on his face he had obviously not taken the time to shave off.

"Because," Lestrade paused and took a deep breath. "The victim was my brother-in-law. And the suspect, my son."

Holmes stood to his feet and started pacing the room. "So what is the evidence you have so far?" He asked after a minute.

"Well, that actually doesn't look so good," Lestrade started. "Sixteen complete prints were found that were not from the victim. Fourteen of those have been identified as matching my son, including three that were found on the murder weapon. Why the murder weapon would have been left in the vehicle is beyond me. But it was found on the front seat. Also, the victim was found in my son's Corvette. But that might also explain why his prints would be all over the car."

"But not on the murder weapon." Holmes interrupted.

"No."

"And what of the two prints that didn't match your son?"

"Those remain unidentified. But, look Sherlock, I know Jake. He has had some rough times, but he's still a good kid. I don't think he could do something like this." Lestrade said emphatically.

"No one ever does." Holmes responded, more to himself than to either of us. Then he gathered himself. "Well now, come Watson. I'm on the case." With that he grabbed his overcoat from the back of the apartment door, and left.

We made it down to the crime scene in under ten minutes, and Holmes had already started his search routine. I had decided to remain off to the side. Holmes, as usual, was pacing the street, pausing occasionally to look at something or make a funny face, and then move on. After about a half hour of this, he came over to where I was waiting by the car.

"Ah, Watson, not interested in this case I see?" he queried.

"I think we should just admit that it was Lestrade's son that did it. Painful for him, I'm sure, but all of the evidence points that way." I responded.

"There would be where you're wrong," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "But never you mind that Watson, aren't you even the slightest bit curious as to how I knew you had a fight with Mary last night?"

"I've stopped being curious with you, but go ahead and tell me."

"The side of your face. It said 'couch pillow' not 'satin sheets.'" Holmes said with a laugh.

Holmes then got an expression on his face that I couldn't quite distinguish, but quickly snapped out of it and went on. "Care for a quick sandwich before we leave?"

"Sure, get in." I agreed, motioning towards the car.

"No, I'd prefer to walk, there's one just down the street."

"All right then." I fell into place beside my partner of several years as we started towards the deli. Once inside, we ate mostly in silence, him reading the newspaper he had snatched from my car, and me idly watching people in the restaurant. We had eaten and left the deli in a matter of minutes.

"Oh, that reminds me, I need to make a quick phone call." Holmes stopped walking and started patting his pockets. "Happen to have a quarter, Watson?"

I dug into my pockets and pulled out a handful of change for him. He stepped into the booth and made a call.

"Yes, Holmes here. I have some good news for you about the case," I listened to Sherlock's half of the conversation. "Well, first of all, your son is not a killer," he was obviously talking to Lestrade. "Yes, that's right. And also, I know who is."

And that is how I find myself writing the last story I will ever write about my adventures with Sherlock Holmes. When Holmes explained it to me, it was really all quite simple. We have been friends for years, and he knew I had an interest in sports cars. And then there was my disheveled appearance the morning after the murder. He still has yet to admit that he was wrong about my fight with Mary. I guess that's just Holmes though.

But I guess I should start from the beginning. Lestrade's son Jake had taken out an ad in the newspaper for a Corvette he was selling. I had seen the ad, and made an inquiry about it, and we had arranged to meet for the sale. The day we were supposed to meet, he called and cancelled, claiming that it was no longer for sale.

I still can't understand what led me to do it. When I saw that car drive past me that night, I guess I just snapped. It was over before I had realized it had even happened, and next thing I know this kid was running towards me and the Corvette. I hid in the shadows until he left. The rest was just instinct.

I should have known Holmes would put it together, though. He had seen that I had not slept in my bed the night of the murder. And then I showed little interest at the crime scene. He had noticed the specs of blood on the change I had given him. And the circled ad on a car for sale in my paper. One test on the quarters I had given to Holmes proved that I was the owner of the two unidentified fingerprints.

I have said my farewells to my friends and family. And now I say farewell to my readers. My lawyer seems to think that I will get a miracle pardon in the next twenty-four hours due to the help I've been on many cases. But I have no hope of this. I accept my punishment, and pray that God is forgiving.


End file.
